Batter My Heart
by kingsmeadroad
Summary: Dark, angsty, depressing- and sexy. Read on...
1. Chapter One Fight Me

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything Criminal Minds related. Characters are merely borrowed and will be put back later. ;)**

**A/N: This is not a oneshot. There are five parts. I hope that it all makes sense once you reach the finish- I won't deny that this was hard, quite impossibly hard at times, to write.**

**Chapter One- Fight Me**

**(Prompt: FYI, I Hurt Too.)**

*******

"_You know that when I hate you, it is because I love you to a point of passion that unhinges my soul."_

_Julie de Lespinasse_

***

"Snap out of it Aaron!" she yelled. "You have to fight back at some stage! Don't leave me here like this!" she screamed, fists clenched against her sides, anger raging through her.

"I won't fight you," he replied safely. "I won't fight you." His calm tone only aggravated her further. She knew him; this was a man who was seriously passionate, seriously strong, and more than capable of fighting back when they both needed it.

"Please," she said, "Please, say something, do something, anything at all, but help me understand!" she half begged, still catatonic, rage coursing through her veins.

"I won't fight you," he repeated, and stood to leave.

She threw her head back in aggravation and hissed in annoyance. "Yeah, walk out. Fine," she said cuttingly.

So he did.

***

As soon as he was gone, the tears stumbled out of her gradually. First they were sad, and then the anger returned. He had been like this for days. Utterly unresponsive, ever since Montana. It was the worst thing she could have imagined. She preferred not to think about it, and she knew that he spent his time licking his wounds about it, trying to fight off a guilt that threatened to overwhelm him. But she couldn't understand why he wouldn't talk to her about it; why he wouldn't talk to anybody about it. She was desperate, eager to pull him back from the brink as she had before, but quietly and confoundedly disabled from doing so.

It had been a single moment of error- and not his error, either. The fact was that Aaron Hotchner had fantastic aim. Nobody ever doubted it and so he had stepped up to take the shot that would free them from yet another Unsub- an unsub who was holding a small boy close to his chest, determined to go out in style and bring his final victim with him.

And in a desperate moment of freakish disproportional stupidity, the local police chief, thinking that Hotch was aiming too low, pressed against his elbow and sent the shot just a few centimetres wide. And the bullet had hit the boy in the neck, and he had bled out on scene. Hotch instantly dropped his weapon and Morgan took the final shot that brought down the unsub.

The disciplinary committee at the BAU had found Hotch not guilty- it was not his fault, even the mother of the boy had protested his innocence. The local police chief had resigned immediately, and the matter was, for all intents and purposes, closed. But for Hotch, the nightmare went on, and on, and on. Unable to forgive himself, he simply withdrew and refused to talk to anybody about it.

And so Emily was left crying loudly to herself, angry and tormented at the fact that she couldn't help; couldn't comprehend. Furious, she grabbed a cushion from the sofa and threw it at the door he had closed behind him just moments earlier, growling loudly, a long and angry groan of frustration echoing through her apartment.

***

And on the other side of the door, waiting sadly, stood Aaron. His head was resting against the frame of the door and his eyes were closed. He wanted to march in there and fight back; tell her what she was missing and argue the toss with her until he lost, and then to hug and kiss her, tell her he loved her and that it would all be alright.

But it wouldn't. There was no way he could tell her the honest truth: that every night since the accident, he had tossed and turned, finally conceding defeat and falling to sleep, where nightmares haunted him, the face of the child most often replaced by his own son's face. He would wake, thrashing in horror, silent screams escaping from his chest, with every assurance that the next rest he tried to take would end the exact same way.

And so when she begged him to fight it out with her, to yell at her, blame her, scream back, he couldn't do it. Because it wasn't her fault and it wasn't her guilt to handle.

Sighing, he turned from the door when he heard her angry yell inside, and walked down the hallway to go home. He had not spent the night with her since Montana, and in the three weeks, they had fallen apart quite completely. He had made excuses for his behaviour for as long as he could, but eventually there were no more excuses to give and they both knew that.

He settled into his car and turned on the ignition, ignoring his phone ringing on the seat beside him; Emily, wanting him to come back, to talk to her, anything at all to make it right. And he refused staunchly to pick up the phone, knowing that it would not help him- and it would definitely not help her.

***

Grunting in dissatisfaction, Emily tossed her phone onto the couch and flopped onto the cushions, resting her head in her hands and running her fingers through her hair for what felt like the thousandth time that evening alone.

All she wanted to do was help him. And he wouldn't allow her to do that. His stupid nobility was trying to protect her from the darkness he had fallen into, and she wasn't going to get near him when he was in such a bad way; she knew that. She had spoken to Rossi, spoken to Morgan, even spoken, in a moment of desperation, with Reid. Reid's advice started with a lot of statistics and so she discounted it before he was finished.

Morgan's advice was typically Morgan-"Let him deal with it alone for a while. He'll come and find you when he needs you."

That had been less than helpful. Aaron was the man she loved; even when she hated him, like now, she loved him so much that it sometimes hurt. She also couldn't help feeling bitter when Morgan said that- was she expected to stand by and wait while he fell apart in front of her? Did he think that she felt nothing, that she wasn't hurting too?

Thinking about that just made her angry, so she thought about what Rossi had said. If there was anyone who knew Aaron better than Emily herself, it was Rossi. And what he had had to say wasn't entirely comforting. "Something like that, it can tear a guy apart. It's why I came back here Emily- guilt was eating me up inside. He needs to reconcile that, and he doesn't realise yet that he needs you to be able to fix him when things get bad. He's used to dealing with things like this on his own, but it's a fight you have to have with him. Make him talk; force him into it if you have to. It will help."

Her response had been rather blunt, she realised almost immediately after she answered him. "At what cost?"

Rossi had merely nodded, entirely aware that it was the sort of healing that could burn bridges. He had been forced to acknowledge that with each of his ex wives; he knew exactly what she was talking about. It was the sort of thing that could tear a relationship to pieces, from the inside out, leaving them with nothing to deal with but words spoken in bitterness; words that would hurt and heal in equal measures.

And so she sat on the couch for a long time, until the anger subsided. She thought about calling him again, and then she decided against it. She needed a plan, but there was nothing in her head at that moment other that confusion, so she headed to the bathroom to take a bath and mull things over for herself.

***

"Can I see him?" Aaron choked out, voice quivering and quiet as he stood in the doorway.

"It's late Aaron," Haley started, and then she sighed and nodded. "Okay. Come in."

"Thanks," he murmured. He hadn't been willing to fight her either, and she seemed to sense the defeatist attitude he was fronting. "Are you sure you're okay?" she enquired. She had loved him for many long years; she would never totally stop caring for him.

"I'm fine," he assured her, "I just want to see him."

She walked with him up the stairs to Jack's room, where the boy was asleep in his bed, teddy bears nearby and nightlights casting a pleasant glow across the room. His thumb was in his mouth, hair tousled and blankets mildly tossed. Aaron sat on the side of the bed.

He laid his hand on Jack's head and before he could stop himself, he gasped slightly and covered his mouth with his other hand, trying his utter best not to lose what little control he had.

"Aaron..."Haley muttered, concern taking over from the original annoyance she had felt at being woken so late. "What's wrong?"

"It's- it's just a case. Worse than usual..."

"I've never seen you this bad," she said worriedly, stepping closer to him. "Aaron, honestly, take time off if you need it. You can come here, spend time with Jack, take him out, I don't mind."

"Yeah," he muttered, aware that he would be doing no such thing. Even seeing Jack was having a devastating effect on him, reminding him of his abject failure to fix things when the opportunity arose. His son was now a reminder of the saddest say of his life. The day he killed a child.

When he felt Haley's hand on his arm, he didn't respond to her immediately. But then the whirlwind of emotions in his head sounding like a hurricane made him turn to face her.

He looked at her for a long time and knew that she was getting closer to him, knew when her hand slipped around his neck that she was reaching out to help him as she saw fit. She leaned over; he didn't stop her. He allowed her to get close- closer than anyone had been recently- and when her lips tenderly pressed against his, he closed his eyes and slid his arms around her waist.

And then he pushed away, shrugging her off and shaking his head.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I can't do that to her."

"To who?" Haley asked, irritation growing on her face.

"To Emily," he murmured distractedly, images of the woman he honestly adored filling his head.

"Emily?"

Aaron looked at her. _Crap._ He hadn't told her yet about his relationship with Emily. They had decided to wait a while, let Aaron get closer to Jack so as not to distort his image of his family, before introducing Emily. Aaron had simply not mentioned it to Haley that he was seeing someone else; his argument had been that it wasn't necessary, but truly, he felt that it would likely hurt her.

And he was right. Abashed, she moved away from him and left the room.

When he followed her down the stairs about twenty minutes later, she was sitting alone in the kitchen, crying softly, though she tried to hide it when he came to bid her goodnight.

"Haley, I- I'm sorry. I didn't realise-"

"It's okay," she assured him, "It's just something else to get used to. It was bound to happen eventually."

He could tell that what she really wanted to do was catch him in a stranglehold and hurt him, beat him, hit him and then hug him close. But he couldn't let her do that; he was just a little too fragile to provide comfort for his ex wife. He nodded and fidgeted for a few seconds before making his excuses and leaving the house. Clambering back into his car, he finally headed for home. It would take a half hour to get there and in that time, he would be able to think through the past few weeks.

But he deliberately blocked all of that out and turned on the radio, listening to the news blaring, blowing all other thoughts out of his head.

***

Emily shrugged her way into bed, missing the other presence that had slept next to her for about five months now. She missed him, the way his arms fitted so perfectly around her; the tiny romantic things he did; the happiness she felt around him; the butterflies in her stomach.

She couldn't help but wonder if somewhere nearby, he was feeling the same way.

***

He was. But his way of dealing with it was not to go to sleep. He wandered across the kitchen and pulled the scotch from the cabinet, haphazardly pouring a copious amount into a glass. He threw it back and landed the glass on the table, turning it in his fingers as he thought. Determined to block out the nightmares tonight, he poured another glass, and downed it just as quickly.

And there was another.

And another.

And another.

***


	2. Chapter Two Hate Me

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything Criminal Minds related. Characters are merely borrowed and will be put back later. ;)**

**Chapter Two- Hate Me**

*******

"_When we don't know who to hate, we hate ourselves."_

_Chuck Palahniuk_

***

When the knock came to at the door, he opened his eyes very, very slowly, and discovered that his vision was blurry, his head was pounding, and every muscle in his arms and legs hurt. Nonetheless, he had to stop whoever was calling from banging their fist against the door because it was just too goddamn painful to listen to. He struggled to his feet, barely taking in the condition of his surroundings, and stumbled towards the noise. He was only halfway there when he realised that he was still just a little bit drunk.

When he finally reached the door, groaning inwardly at the banging outside, which was getting louder and louder, he looked through the peephole and saw Emily standing there, worry and fear etched across her face. _What does she want?_

He opened the door reluctantly and stood in the doorway to face her. While he waited for her to talk, he thought back to the night before.

***

The scotch was long gone. And as soon as it had all disappeared, he had giggled to himself and went to the cabinet for a bottle of- well, anything. He found an old whiskey and decided that that would continue him on his path to utter and desperate forgetfulness.

Pouring the whiskey into a fresh glass on the countertop (he missed it the first two times), he swallowed it without flinching as quickly as he could. It was working. He could feel himself getting tired, and he knew that eventually he would simply drop off to sleep.

_But first, talk to Emily._

His brain was telling him to call her, and the rest of his body was in no condition to stop him as he stumbled across the room, into the living room, where he found his phone. He pulled his jacket from his shoulders and viciously whipped his tied from his neck, tossing it onto the floor, not caring where it landed or whether he stepped on it. He grabbed the phone and meandered back to the kitchen countertop, where he abandoned the luxury of using a glass and instead drank another mouthful of whiskey straight from the glass bottle. He had a funny feeling that it was a very expensive whiskey; hadn't Haley's father given it to him?

Anyway, he tried, and half failed, to focus on the phone, and finally managed to find Emily's number. He dialled and the phone rang.... and rang... and rang...

And then she picked up.

"Aaron?" she said quietly.

"Mmmm. Yup," he answered, smiling stupidly and swaying slightly on the spot.

"Aaron, what's the matter? You sound... funny."

"Nothing's the matter. What's the matter?" he said more quietly, as though to himself, suddenly unsure of why he had actually called.

"Are you drunk?" she said, hitting the nail on the head.

He smiled widely. "Yes!" he declared, unabashedly and raising the bottle into the air triumphantly. "It makes me forget," he finished sadly, lowering the bottle again and drinking some more.

"Why did you call?" she asked coldly, devastated that he was in such bad shape, and angrier still that refused to talk to her normally about it, only able to pick up the phone when he was in a drunken stupor.

"To tell you something... Umm..." He was having trouble remembering what it was he had to tell her. "Oh yes!" he suddenly yelled, causing her to wince slightly on the other end of the call. "I kissed Haley."

"Oh," she said, unsure of what else to say.

He was still smiling stupidly.

"Goodnight Aaron," she said softly. And then she hung up. He was left standing in his kitchen, wondering why she had hung up on him. And then he realised that she hadn't really heard the whole story. In a moment of violent clarity, he realised that he had not told divulged what had really happened, and half in a panic, he dialled again, his fingers feeling heavy as he pressed the keys.

She didn't pick up.

And she didn't pick up the second time.

And the third time, he got angry, and he threw the phone as hard as he could, seeing it smash against the wall, entirely not caring, feeling oddly revived. He took another swig of whiskey and realised that he was breathing heavily, angry at last. Angry for the first time in what felt like days, months; maybe even years. He lashed out at the closest thing to him- the stool that he had been standing on- and kicked it over. The clatter it made as it hit the ground hurt his head but it was helpful. He needed to feel sore; he needed to hurt, and hurt badly.

So he lashed out again, making a short run at the coffee table in the living room and kicking it, pushing the magazines and files off of it, watching them fall to the floor, some of them ripped and torn. In his anger, he didn't care, and he simply kept going. Nothing evaded him. He threw cushions, ripped pictures from the walls and flung them, hard, at the floor. Shattering glass and splintered wood were his only retreats into the chaos he really felt. He kicked the dropped cushions and didn't care when one of them spun into the bucket by the fireplace, knocking it to the ground. He raged through the ground floor, breaking the dining room chairs when he kicked them, glass crashing when he swiped the vase from the table onto the ground. DVDs and books went flying as he pounded his fists into a bookcase and ripped them out of their places, yelling on occasion, getting as angry as he needed to, roaring to himself and letting tears fall uselessly when he cut his hand on a broken glass in the kitchen.

His rampage continued for longer than he had thought it would- and along the way, he found the whiskey bottle again and drank more. He pulled open drawers and upended their contents, hearing the cruel smashing of steel cutlery against the floor, watching his belongings crack and break along with his resolve. Magnets were ripped from the fridge and the toaster found its way to the ground, the metallic thrashing providing no release for him. Trays, pots, pans and utensils went flying, and the plates and bowls cracked as they hit the floor and walls. He threw them unceremoniously, watching each one of them fall apart; just like him.

He punched the lampshades and at one point even swung a golf club against the mantelpiece, scattering his memories onto the rug as photos ripped and frames fell apart. After he ripped the CDs from the shelf and angrily fired them towards the windows, he marched back to the kitchen, yanking the house phone from its socket along the way.

He angrily tossed the fruit bowl onto the tiles, apples crashing into a pulp as he pulled the coffee machine from its plug socket and thrashed it across the kitchen, opening doors and slamming them shut again, making as much noise as he wanted to. He pounded his fists against tables and countertops, kicked as many low lying articles as he could find, and at one point passed a mirror and launched his elbow into it, feeling the harsh slice of the glass against his skin inside his shirt.

As angry as ever, he went back to the living room, exhaling slowly but deliberately, where he pulled the curtains down angrily and broke the blinds trying to rip them from their fittings. Every piece of furniture was kicked, hit, thumped or pummelled in some way, his teeth gritted into steely rage.

The drinks cabinet suffered also; he pulled out bottle after bottle and threw them haphazardly across the kitchen surface, letting the splashes and hopeless disarray of the house in turmoil take over anything he felt inside.

His senseless rage had taken its toll; he was bleeding, battered and broken, utterly exhausted and practically catatonic. His rage had barely subsided, but he fell to his knees when the tears took over, the now empty whiskey bottle abandoned ten feet away. He curled over on the floor and allowed sleep to take him away, dreamless; but no more relaxing than the nightmares.

***

For a time she just looked at him.

Bleary eyed, he lowered his gaze. He had destroyed everything they had worked for. Their relationship was in tatters. And he deserved it, every last shouting insult, every yelling hurt, every abject miserable remark she would make in the fight that was to ensue.

Though he wasn't to know it, she had spent her entire night trying to get through to him. She had ignored the first two calls from him, and as she had tried to pick it up on the third time, the line had gone dead. She had tried calling his house phone- which he had ripped from the socket on his senseless rampage through the house.

And now she just looked at him sadly. There was blood on the left arm of the shirt he had not changed, and it was copious enough to make her worry. Two cuts above his left eyebrow were contributing to a general pain in his face, bruises across his forehead and neck were evident, and she could see that he had at least three broken knuckles on his left hand alone, blood caked around his fingers. And his eyes were utterly disgraced, ashamed and lost.

And she surprised him.

"Jesus. What did you do?" she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "What did you do, Aaron? Are you okay?"

Why wasn't she yelling at him?

"I'm fine," he said, his voice croaky and dry. He coughed once or twice and finally looked straight into her eyes. "I'm sorry," he said slowly. "I didn't-"

"Shut up a second," she said softly, reaching for his hand and stroking one of his battered fingers. "I hate you, you know that? I hate you for doing this."

"So hate me," he said, almost grateful that she did. "But this is how it is."

She shook her head sadly and glanced up at him, letting go of his hand.

"Let me in," she said directly, almost businesslike, and he stepped back to allow her inside, temporarily forgetting what he had done the night before. She knew well in advance though, and she ignored the mess as she stepped through the door.

"Let's go," she said, taking his hand and pulling him towards the stairs.

"Where are we going?" he asked, wondering half heartedly if she was planning on killing him.

"You're going to bed," she said. "You need sleep."

He didn't argue with her, and he allowed her to pull her upstairs. She knew her way; they'd walked these stairs before, albeit under different circumstances. She pulled him to the bed and told him to lie down and take his shoes off. She headed to the bathroom and grabbed a bowl, filling it with warm water. She found a cloth and the first aid kit her kept in there, and wandered back to the bedroom where he lay waiting for her, utterly unaware of how hurt he was, gazing at the ceiling.

She opened the window to let some air in and sat next to him, resting the bowl on the bedside locker. She unbuttoned his shirt and managed to pull it off. He tried not to flinch, but remembered the mirror he had broken, and knew that it was bound to hurt him eventually. He was ashamed to think that she cared about him enough to help him- even when he had locked her out.

She carefully, very carefully, cleaned each cut, warmed each bruise and bandaged each injury worthy of a bandage. His fingers she could do nothing about, but she cleaned his hands and carefully laid them at his sides, knowing that it would take a trip to the hospital later to fix the broken knuckles- and the two broken bones in his left foot. His elbow seemed worse than it was; she bandaged it and made sure he kept it straight. By the time she reached his face and neck, his breathing was relaxed and he was struggling to stay awake. She stroked his hair as she brushed cautiously against the bruises on his neck and jaw. She couldn't help but pity him; he had really lost control, something he never did, and every bad feeling he had about himself had come out.

When she finally cleaned the last two cuts on his face and washed the blood from his eyes and cheeks, she knew he was asleep, and she stroked his hair calmly for a few minutes before standing to leave. She wrapped the duvet around him after taking off his pants, and she hoped that his slumber would last a few hours at least. She leaned over and, scrunching her lip to the side in doubt, she kissed his temple softly. "I hate you for doing this," she whispered again, and then she left the room with the bowl and cloth.

She washed out the bowl and the cloth in the bathroom, glancing at her own tired and red eyed face in the mirror. Didn't he understand that any hurt he felt, she felt too? She sighed and shook her head, drying her hands on a towel.

And then she quietly went downstairs, trying her utmost best not to cry at the pain she found there, scrawled across the walls, battered into the wood and glass, slashed into the fabrics. Ignoring it would be difficult, facing it harder still.


	3. Chapter Three Help Me

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything Criminal Minds related. Characters are merely borrowed and will be put back later. ;)**

**Chapter Three- Help Me**

***

"_Love me when I least deserve it, because that's when I really need it."_

_Swedish Proverb_

***

When his eyes opened, Aaron immediately felt slightly better. His stomach felt unsettled and he could feel more than one prevailing pain, but he was warm and he felt safe; more than that, he felt relaxed. He looked around the room and the memories of the previous night came back. He groaned to himself and struggled to remember how he had gotten to his room and why he was already bandaged and healing. Then he remembered Emily; her never ending patience with him, her strength of character- and the fact that she hadn't slapped him when even he admitted he deserved it.

He sat upright in bed and shook his head lightly, instantly regretting it when he realised that he was not yet properly balanced. Groaning slightly, he sincerely considered that he was likely to need to throw up quite soon. He didn't want her to be there or to feel obliged to help him again, so he struggled out of the blankets, making his way to the bathroom.

***

For her part, Emily was in the living room, doing her best to tidy and clean the devastated house. In truth, she wasn't sure why she was doing it. She was still very angry with him, but she knew that this was simply the inevitable result of a pent up rage he wasn't able to beat on his own.

She had swept up pieces of glass, ruined photo frames, broken ceramic cups and plates and the remains of the coffee jug in the kitchen, and she had found large rubbish bags in a drawer. She tossed out anything that was broken- the toaster, the kettle, the blender- and she wiped the blood spatters from the wall near the mirror, the remains of which she carefully swept up and discarded. Not much of a one for souvenirs, she nonetheless tidied the files in the living room, replacing them all, knowing them exactly since she had the same copies on her own coffee table. She picked up the broken and tattered photos of Jack and Aaron, and the ones with Haley, carefully trying to smooth them out, wiping a small drop of blood from one of them.

She tried her best to remain objective about it, but at the end of the day, she found herself feeling sorry for him; he had completely lost himself in a flurry of anger that had destroyed his past life and everything he had built- symbolically at least.

And she was trying her hardest not to think about the fact that he had admitted to kissing his ex wife. Emily felt betrayed and hurt, but there was no point in having that particular fight. At least, not now there wasn't. Eventually she would talk about it, but right now she was simply not able to think that through too.

She was in the dining room, sweeping the remains of the vase that had stood on the centre of the table into a plastic bag, It looked as though some sort of hurricane had hit the house, and she could already tell that it was going to take a lot of paint and new wallpaper to cover the damage he had beat into the walls. She had seen a lot of blood in her time; angry blood spilled in a psychotic rage seemed oddly less damaging than the blood that caused the coppery smell in the room. This was possibly the room where had caused the most damage. A ferocious strike of one of the chairs has smashed the mirror there into a million tiny pieces, and she had a feeling that it was a job too big for to handle. Nonetheless, she gathered the splintered wood sections of the chairs and gathered them; he would get around to recycling them later on. Hopefully.

"Emily."

She stopped short, hunched over, carefully removing glass from the carpet, thinking that someday Jack might hurt himself if she wasn't thorough. She picked herself up and turned to face him, unsure of what to do with her face, unsure of what to say, entirely unaware of everything other than the humiliation that eked from him- and the unbearable surge of love she still felt for him.

"Can we talk?" he muttered, desperately hoping that it wasn't too late for them to work it out.

"Honestly Aaron, I'm not sure what there is to talk about."

"I have something to explain. About Haley."

She shook her head. "I don't want to know the details," she said sadly.

"Yes you do," he insisted, "because I didn't say it all on the phone. I went to the house," he rushed on, hoping that she would simply hear him out. "And I saw Jack for a while, and then Haley followed me to his bedroom and she kissed me. Emily, I pushed her away. I swear I did. I don't love her, I don't want her, but I need you to believe me Em. Please," he said, trying to avoid the shaking in his voice. She shrugged at him.

"I do believe you Aaron. Haley phoned me this morning, and told me what happened. Her story is the same as yours and I believe it."

He sat down suddenly on the chair by the door- one of the only undamaged chairs in the room. "Emily, I'm sorry." He said it plainly; simply, utterly ashamed of all he had done to her, how he had cut her out, how he had hurt her so entirely and completely. "Jesus, I'm sorry. I'll do anything to prove it to you."

"You don't need to prove it to me. I know already that you're sorry. You're sorry now, but tonight you'll go to sleep sober and you'll see it all again in a nightmare-" His facial expression changed. How did she know about the dreams? "And then you'll do the exact same thing tomorrow and you'll just keep pushing me away," she said, matter-of-factly.

And he knew that he was losing her. She wasn't crying, she wasn't yelling, she had uttterly given in, apathetic and practical. It was much like watching Reid spouting statistics- only Emily was showing less enthusiasm.

"So tell me honestly Aaron. Is this it? Because if this is it, if that's all there is, then I should leave."

She felt her heart breaking when his face dropped and sadness overwhelmed him.

"Aaron," she said, more gently this time, "I need to know. Are you always going to lock me out like this? I need someone I can spend my life with, knowing that they trust me implicitly, and aware that I can trust them just as much."

If she thought her heart had broken before, she was wrong. He started crying, resting his head in his hands and shuddering into broken sobs. "You don't love me anymore," he said pathetically.

She walked across the room to him and knelt in front of him, pulling his battered hands into her own. "Aaron I love you more than life itself. You're the world to me. I absolutely adore you and this is killing me, it truly is. I swear that."

"Emily, help me," he said, tears still falling down his cheeks.

It was bigger and more important than saying he loved her. She knew that. She didn't need to hear it. What she needed was his admission that he needed her; and he had just given her that. He could feel his chest heaving and he could see that he was coming undone; but he didn't care. He just needed her to help. Of all the low moments he had had in the past few weeks, this was probably his lowest; the acknowledgment that he simply couldn't do this on his own.

She sat in front of him for a few seconds, just looking right into his bloodshot eyes. She allowed him to tentatively lean closer and she felt her stomach jump when his lips met hers. His hands were too sore to use them properly, but she reached her hand up and wiped the tears away, gently cradling his face and kissing him back. It lasted only a few seconds, and when they separated, it was minimal; he kept his head pressed against hers, touching her forehead with her own.

"I'll help you," she whispered. "That's what I'm here for."

And the tears fell some more, trickling against his cheek as he struggled to keep control. Within seconds he was shaking and shivering, hunched over in the chair, desperate to get away from here and to just be with her, to have her support him, so that he could finally get out of the black hole he was stuck in.

She very carefully reached for his hand and he stood up with her. She gently pulled him with her upstairs, determined that he would not arrive at the ER still smelling of alcohol. She pushed him toward the bathroom. "Take a shower," she said softly, "then we're going to mine. Staying here won't do you any good."

He privately agreed with her- and realised promptly that he hadn't thanked her for cleaning as much as she did. He would do it later, he decided, as he stepped into the bathroom, half wishing that she was with him to keep him stable.

Emily wandered around his bedroom, taking some clothes from the wardrobes and some shoes from the rack, stuffing everything into a bag and making sure that he would have no reason to return here for a few days. She knew that the cleaning she had done wasn't good enough; she would have to get someone else to at least help, and she wasn't going to allow Aaron to upset himself by trying to clean it alone either.

When he came from the shower, she sat on the bed and watched him flinch as he got dressed. He seemed quite determined not to complain, but she was nonetheless still sympathetic. He had been heading down a dark road for quite a few weeks; the eventuality was his own fault, but Emily wasn't the type of person to blame someone for a mistake.

Especially not someone she loved so dearly.

When he was ready and dressed- though the bones in his feet were agonisingly sore- he tried to take his bag from her, but she wouldn't let him, and she led him from the house, not letting him see the mess remaining in the kitchen or the torn photos of his son that would only upset him more. She had found the remains of his phone, and knew that Penelope would be able to replace it and save everything on it.

She helped him into her car and she drove home, keeping one eye on him and one eye on the road. They were quiet, anticipating a night of hard talking and discussions that still had the potential to destroy any relationship they had; but the silence was oddly comforting. His admission that he needed help was a welcome development for them both, and Emily knew that though tonight would be difficult, it would save him the rest of the depression he was otherwise facing.

Aaron was tired. He was possibly more tired than he had ever been before, and his entire body was aching. When she reached her house and helped him from the car, he didn't protest his ability to carry himself; he just wasn't able. She helped him inside and closed the door behind her, dropping their bags on the floor and instantly she was right there at his side again, helping him to the couch. "We should have gone to the ER first," she muttered.

"I'm fine," he said, "We don't need to go there at all."

She smirked slightly, "Aaron, you've got three broken toes and your hands are ruined. You do need to at least go to a doctor."

"I will. But no ER," he insisted. "There are other people who need more emergency help. I've already waited this long."

She conceded that he had a point, and she stood again to make two steaming cups of mild tea, well aware that his stomach was likely still in bits from his all night bender the night before. He watched her moving about in the kitchen.

"Emily," he started, when she came back to the couch and handed him his cup, "I love you. I really and truly adore you- and nothing will ever change that. Thank you- for not hitting me, for not fighting me, for helping..."

He was still not quite his usual stoic self, and he could feel the tears coming again. She put her cup on the coffee table and crawled onto him, gently positioning herself in his arms, warming him and making him feel wanted and loved, instead of feeling like a monster as he had recently.

He pulled her as close to him as he could, bruising his arms and adding to the pain in his chest and stomach. His throat still burned from the whiskey but he didn't care. She was there and she was with him; she was forgiving him and helping him, which was exactly what he needed.

He kissed her hair and relished the comfort he felt when she was in his arms. She lay against him and tiredness took over; she hadn't slept all night, and he had only fallen into rest before dawn. They were both exhausted, and within minutes, the familiar surrounds of her apartment had lulled them to sleep.


	4. Chapter Four Save Me

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything Criminal Minds related. Characters are merely borrowed and will be put back later. ;)**

**A/N: Please note, some of the concepts of this chapter are very, very dark. It's as accurate as I could make it, so if it's effective, it's unpleasant to read. Just to let you know.**

**Chapter Four- Save Me**

***

"_It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness; a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain."_

_Neil Gaiman_

***

She woke suddenly, acutely aware that something was wrong; very wrong. She struggled into consciousness and considered that though she hadn't closed the curtains before dozing off, night had fallen. The dusky grey darkness eking across the sky told her that twilight had been and gone; night was coming fast, but that wasn't what had woken her.

And then it happened again. Someone gasped a sob. She knew exactly who it was- but she didn't know where he was. He had clearly woken at some stage and didn't want to wake her, so he had slipped away and hid in some dark part of the house where he could fight his demons in silence.

She gathered the blanket from the couch around her, noting that the house was freezing, and she began to search for him. She looked in the kitchen where she found a broken cup, almost as though it had jumped from the edge of the countertop to the floor. Ignoring it, she moved past the kitchen and looked in the hall; nothing. She checked the dining room and he wasn't there either. She quietly climbed the stairs, trying not to disturb him, but also trying to hear where he was. She checked her bedroom, but he wasn't there, and finally she found him in the bathroom.

She felt her heart squeeze in her chest when she saw him, crouched over in the shower, his arms tied around his bent knees, a small trail of blood leading from the bathroom sink to where he now sat, the water running over his body, washing the cold pain away. His clothes were wet and water streamed down his face. She knew that he was crying, and that he hadn't seen her yet.

She stepped through the door and without saying a word, she first turned on the small light on the bathroom wall, casting a shadowy golden glow through the room. And then she left the blanket hanging from the side of the bath and she opened the shower door, stepping inside after taking her shoes off. She sat gently beside him, noting the inherent discomfort of the water flooding her clothes. At least it was warm, though she knew that warm water wasn't going to stop the blood flow. She guessed- and she was right- that he had attempted to make a cup of coffee, but had dropped the cup and cut himself trying to clear it up.

It was just too much for him when she sat next to him, and he allowed himself to break down entirely, sobbing uncontrollably as she fixed an arm around him and resting his head on her shoulder. It was an odd role reversal- she had never thought Aaron Hotchner would need protection, and yet here they were.

He reached for her hand and gripped it tightly, despite the wound on his palm. She held his hand tightly and allowed him to mewl his way through the pain, noticing that the bruises on his knuckles had flared up, black and blue hues shining across his hands. When he tried to gasp out words, she shushed him, and when he tried to move, she prevented him. She whispered assurances to him, knowing that they were futile and redundant. She had known he was suffering. She hadn't known just how bad it was.

For Aaron, it was as though he was stuck in a deep, dark pit of despair- and though he had tried and tried, he couldn't get out of it. He had only realised after tearing his house apart that without someone next to him, he was utterly lost- and the only person he truly wanted was her; that was why he had left her in the door. It was why he hadn't screamed at her to leave, why he had walked away instead of fighting her. The last thing in the world he wanted was for her to be sore or for her to hurt.

He was forced to admit that he needed her and relied on her. She was the only one who could save him from the monstrous beast inside of him.

And even as he buried his face in her neck and she kissed his face tenderly, he could feel the darkness ebbing away ever so slightly. His heart still hurt, he was still having trouble breathing, the images of his dead son and the boy he had killed were still stuck in his head- but it felt safer, less dangerous, when she was next to him. He was also shivering, and Emily had noticed.

"Aaron," she whispered when he had regained some control. She stroked his hair and kissed his cheek again. "We have to move, you're getting cold," she said softly, and helped him to his feet. They stepped from the shower and she stroked his face slowly with the back of her hand. He looked less tired than he had earlier in the day, but the lingering sadness in his eyes was something she didn't know how to cope with or how to beat. All she could do was try as hard as she could to fix this. She squeezed his hand lightly.

"I'll be back in a few minutes," she said softly, and slipped from the bathroom to grab towels from the cabinet down the hall. When she came back, Aaron had barely moved. It was beginning to worry her, and she knew that persuading him of his innocence wouldn't be enough. She had to know about the nightmares, the horror he could see inside his head when he closed his eyes. On returning, she found that he had already managed to remove his pants, but his hands were too sore to continue, and he was shivering harshly in the still steaming room. She was quick about it, pulling his hands away when he tried to help her as she undid the buttons of his shirt and pulled it off. She grabbed one of the towels and wrapped it around him, carefully and delicately rubbing the fabric against his skin, forcing his body to heat itself.

When she had him semi dry, she turned her attention to herself for a minute, pulling her pants and shirt off and pulling the blanket from the couch back around her. And when she looked back at him, she felt that there was nothing she could offer; there was nothing decent she could give.

Aaron walked closer to her and managed to wrap his arms around her, pulling her close to him and smelling her hair. It was a comfort that he couldn't find anywhere else- and even as he hugged her, he felt that tired weariness coming back to haunt him again despite the small comfort she provided. He knew at this stage that it wasn't the alcohol, and it wasn't a hangover. The dark lethargy that had settled over him was depression, and he wouldn't get out of it anytime soon.

She half pushed him from the bathroom into her bedroom and sat with him on the bed for a few minutes, pulling a drawer open to find a new bandage for his new wound. He didn't seem to notice when she cleaned and dressed the cut, and she knew that what he was going through was devastating him from the inside out, destroying his mood, his capability, his strength and power. He had lost weight in the three weeks, she could see the difference. He cried, he sobbed, and where he had smiled at her before, he couldn't smile now. He was lethargic, anxious and preoccupied with thoughts of his own worthlessness, his own horror. His head ached constantly- she had noticed his wincing- and he was moving physically slower than she had ever seen him.

"Aaron," she said softly. "You have PTSD. And you're suffering a nervous breakdown. You need help."

He looked at her and his mouth twitched slightly. "You can save me."

"Can I?" she asked him quietly.

"Yes," he said, insistent now, sure.

She didn't move. "I need to know about the nightmares."

He closed his eyes and looked at the ground. She thought she had lost him, and determined that patience was something she would need here in spades, but then his willpower surprised and though he didn't look at her, he reached across and took her hands again, holding them in his own. She crawled closer to him on the bed and leaned her head against his shoulder, knowing that even being close to him was a help. Aaron pulled one of her hands through his blanket and pressed her fingers and palm against his chest, feeling soothed by her warm skin against his own. He rested his own hand over hers and felt his heart beating.

And then he looked straight ahead, still holding her hands, and told her the truth.

"I see Jack. Every time, if it's not the boy, then it's Jack. And sometimes, it's not me who's killed him, but Haley. Or Reid. Or Dave, or once even Morgan."

"And you wake up when he's dead," she asserted, knowing only too well the depravity that those dreams could cause. He nodded and a single tear dripped own his face, coming to land on her hair. She pulled her head away slightly and curved herself around him, moving her free hand to his face. She stroked her fingers through his hair and smiled gently. "You know they're not real. You know that Jack is safe and that he loves you- you're not a monster to him, or to any of us."

"I know," Aaron said. "I know all of that, it's all up there, logical, in my head, as clear as day."

"But it's not enough to help you win," she said. He nodded and met her eyes. In them she saw a flare of hope. She understood, and so he trusted her to fix it.

"Come here," she said, standing up and shrugging away her blanket. She pulled him to his feet and walked with him across the room to her mirror. She stood him in front of it and moved to stand behind him, pushing her hands against his sides.

"Look. And tell me what you see," she said.

He tilted his head and looked- hard. He saw the emaciation, the sadness, the pain. His eyes were dark, his face tired, his body torn and bruised.

"Tell me what you see," she said again. "It's hard. But we have no secrets now."

His lip trembled and he blinked once or twice, each time met with an image he didn't care for, self loathing overtaking his thoughts, looming like a dark cloud over his head.

"I see sadness," he said honestly. She nodded and stroked her fingers up and down his sides, warming his skin and making him tingle inside for the first time in weeks.

"What else?" she whispered, moving her hands along his arms, delicately tickling the bruises and cuts he had made.

"Ugliness," he said, "Like all the good is gone."

"More," she said, "tell me more."

She pressed herself against his back and wrapped her arms warmly around his waist, her fingers tracing across his stomach and waist, brushing against bruises and cuts.

"I see pain," he said, trying to fight it away and failing yet again, eyes welling up when he saw that he was stuck in a hole he couldn't scratch his way out of. She pressed her fingers violently against one of the cuts on his side. He hissed and growled, one of the first facial expressions he had made in over a day. The movement woke him up a little.

"That's pain," she said, kissing his shoulder blade softly. "It means you're okay."

He was making more progress than he realised. She scraped her fingers and nails across his chest, scratching against his nipples, brushing against the sensitive skin. His eyes closed inadvertently and for the first time in almost a month, he was hyper aware of her. He could feel the swell of her breasts against her back, and he could feel her leg pushing against his, her smooth warm skin caressing his.

"Tell me what else," she said insistently. He looked back into the mirror.

"Darkness," he said simply. "A monster."

"I hunt monsters," she said, nipping her teeth against the least bruised skin on his neck. His head moved to give her greater access, but she wasn't making it easy for him. "I hate them. Do I hate you?"

"No," he said, assuredly.

"Are you sure?" she asked into his ear, her breath tickling against his, her arms still wrapped warmly around his chest, holding him securely.

"I'm sure," he said quickly- the first fast and animated thing he had done in quite some time.

"So how can you be a monster?" she said. It was rhetorical. He knew that he wasn't. He didn't have to answer. He tried to turn to face her, but she stopped him. "Look again."

He looked again, and saw the small spark of colour in his cheeks and the longing in his eyes- but it was all overshadowed by the pain in his chest; his head; his heart and soul.

"Do you like what you see?" she asked him bluntly.

"No."

"Why?"

"It's not me."

"Exactly," she smiled. "You're the man who visits your son, knowing that you're making the world better for him. You're the one who takes nothing for granted. You're the one who makes sure we're all alright. You've not done the same for yourself. Why?"

"I don't know…" he started, and he looked away. A hand reached into his hair and gently massaged his head. He was forced to look back into the mirror, relishing the feeling of someone caring for him, making him feel things he hadn't felt in too long to remember.

"I didn't deserve it," he said suddenly.

"What didn't you deserve?" she asked.

"Help," he half gasped as her fingers scratched against his scalp.

"Why not?" she challenged.

"I killed a boy," he said.

"No," she said. "That's a reason why you did deserve help."

He wasn't sure where she was going with this, and his brow crinkled as he thought it through. She circled around his body, allowing him to feel cool air against his back- cool air that made the hairs on his neck stand up. She gently held his face in her hands and forced him to look into her eyes.

"Why wouldn't you deserve help?" she asked again.

And then he knew. It was rhetorical.

_Everyone deserves help if it can be given._

And she looked into his eyes for another few seconds, wondering if her somewhat odd method had made any difference. And then he lifted his arms and wrapped himself around her, curving her body to fit his. His stinging hands wound around her waist, touching against the bare skin on her lower back. He pushed his lips against hers, tentatively at first, and then passionately, his tongue determinedly fighting hers.

He could finally feel the pain he needed to feel. His head burned, his throat blistered, his hands ached and his bruises throbbed painfully when he moved. The tightening cuts and lacerations on his skin hissed when her skin rubbed against his; this was clean pain. The pain of healing- just like the clean prick of an antiseptic on a scratch. The dull throb was still there, deeper down and inside of him. But at right that moment, he was pulling loose of it, letting it slide away instead of letting it dominate him.

He felt aware, awake, and alive. He knew it was a temporary release. There was a lot more to go before he would move on. He was ill; but he knew when she was there that he would survive. He was gasping for breath whenever she arched against him, more aware of her than he had ever been- or maybe it was because he hadn't felt this way for weeks.

For her part, Emily held him close, making sure that he felt every scratch of her fingers, every push of her skin. She made sure that he felt her grind into his hips, and she knew she had succeeded when his hands landed against the elastic line of her panties, holding her in place against him. His knuckles and fingers were sore, but Emily wouldn't spare him the pain- and neither would he.

Emily knew he needed to feel it, and he embraced it openly, grimacing and flinching between rough kisses, groaning with both pleasure and pain. He knew that for all the romance they often practiced, this was not the time. He didn't want to treat her like a lady- it might be what she deserved, but even as he lifted her leg and hooked it over his waist, they both knew that tonight would not be about gentleness or softness.

It would be about raw hurt and healing, raw pain and emotion, raw ecstasy and finally, a satisfied, dreamless exhaustion.


	5. Chapter Five Love Me

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything Criminal Minds related. Characters are merely borrowed and will be put back later. ;)**

**A/N: And so this is the final chapter. I loved writing this, it was short and challenging and bittersweet and complex, so thank you so much for the reviews and the kind things you've all said.**

**The final quote of this chapter is the finish line, and it shows how I wrote this and why I did it the way I did. It might make no sense to some readers, but to others it will work perfectly- which is what I hope for.**

**Chapter Five- Love Me**

***

"_There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power.  
They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues.  
They are messengers of overwhelming grief...and unspeakable love."_

_Washington Irving_

***

Her body was on fire. There was no other description for it. Even as he stroked his fingers along her thigh, her leg lifted over his waist, she was half breathless. She kissed him violently, nipping his lips and wrapping her arms around him, nails scratching against his still broad shoulders as she wrapped herself around him. He felt steadier, stronger somehow- and he somehow managed to retain enough composure to lightly snap the strap of her bra against her skin before he unhooked it and pulled it from her shoulders roughly. She separated from him to pull it off.

When she pushed back against him and he felt the cool bare skin of her chest pressing against his, he closed his eyes and finally gave in to the unbearable twisting of pain and pleasure in his body. It might hurt, but it was perfectly amazing nonetheless. He wasn't particularly smiling- but then, neither was she. All animal instincts had taken over and Emily more than once hurt him when she pressed her hands against his face, her soft skin rubbing uncaringly against the stubble on his jaw, pressing against bruises and cuts. As much as she loved him, this wasn't the time for gentleness. There was, for countless reasons, more anger between them at right that moment than there was romantic intentions.

And then he made his move, and shoved her backwards before following her to the bed. She crawled to meet him in the middle and when he grabbed her waist and yanked her with him, tossing her over his body as he lay flat on his back, she moaned. She wanted him- _now_- but there was still time to be taken. She needed him to feel every single burn, every single kiss, each and every dart of undeniable pleasure. And that took time.

When his fingers fixed in her hair and he grimaced in pain, he took it out on her, pulling her hair and forcing her head backwards to combat the pain. Her throat was bared to him and he growled, leaning up ever so slightly to fix his lips over her pale skin, savagely leaving a brand on her skin that made her cry out. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, small red marks a reminder that she had been there.

He pulled her head down to his and kissed her over and over, not gently or softly but cruelly- and Emily embraced and adored every second of it. Her lips was swollen, her cheeks flushed- and she could feel the telltale burning in her gut telling her to keep going. While she kissed him, her legs tucked around his waist, she felt his hands creeping downward, pushing against every curve of her back, his fingers finally sliding underneath the elastic of her panties, forcing her against his hips, pushing himself in the right direction. She growled against his lips, a deep husky growl that turned him on even more. His hands were clasped around her ass and she wanted nothing more than him, right then.

It was as though he could read her mind. He could feel the strength coming back to him and it was relatively easy to push her off of him and onto the duvet. He continued his assault without a break, yanking her panties from her legs and leaving them on the floor beside the bed. He was quick to remove his still damp boxers and then he was on top of her, kissing her hungrily, his fingers exploring her body eagerly.

Her legs extended of their own free will; she couldn't have stopped it if she wanted to, and her agile limbs fixed around his waist as he hit home with an animal moan of longing. He managed to stay focused on her, leaning down to kiss her, to bite her skin, to press as much of himself against her as he could, enduring the painful pressure and feeling it heighten each sensation he felt in the middle of the storm. When he pulled away from her torso, he lifted her leg as high he could and kissed her shin, his teeth digging against it tenderly, his eyes closed as his hand wandered the length of her leg, adoring the sensitive skin he found under his fingers.

When he couldn't hold it any longer, he collapsed into a roar of brutal euphoria with her, feeling more in those few precious seconds than he had in weeks. She clung to him desperately, breathing heavily, feeling the aftershocks of electricity flying through her body, hugging him when he dropped onto her, one hand gripping him tightly, feeling the sweat on his skin clam into nothing, her other hand dwindling in his hair and pulling it gently, arousing a smattering of excitement in him again.

They lay there for some few minutes, neither speaking, trying to breathe normally, trying to establish what had just happened to them. Slowly, she moved her legs from his waist, feeling the discomfort in limbs that weren't quite as young as they used to be.

When they were both lying out fully, Aaron kissed her lips softly, nuzzled against her, and rolled off of her to help her breathe. Her eyes were still closed and she wanted to tell him how much she adored him and loved him, no matter whether in good times or bad times, no matter whether he was ill or thriving; none of it counted. But she was still having trouble finding the words to point that out.

She shimmed closer to him and rested her head on his chest, her hand reached across to clasp his shoulder. Aaron tied an arm around her and held her close, the contented feeling staying quite strong when her skin was pressed against his. But nonetheless, he knew this was temporary. He knew it wouldn't last and that this battle, though won, might not be the worst or the hardest fought in the war that was to come in future days and weeks.

It was when he thought of Jack again that that safe feeling seemed to flood away. He couldn't bear to think of his own son. It horrified him that he was so lost, so covered in darkness, so entirely separate and alone from the boy he adored so much. It felt as though his heart would break.

He didn't mention it- but he underestimated Emily and her powers of observation. She had felt his shoulders clench, she had realised when his hand stopped stroking her back that something was wrong. And so she carefully thought about how best to distract him, to get him to sleep quietly and fitfully- even if just for tonight; she knew that there would be bad nights to come. But one night of sanctuary was what she needed to give him, what he needed to get.

She very softly kissed his bruised neck, determined that this time, it wasn't going to hurt at all. They had battered their way through the horror just minutes before; now he needed comfort and affection. She was more than willing to help him; to provide.

When she flipped her leg over his body and pressed her hands against his shoulders, he found himself, somewhat reluctantly, letting go of the dark thoughts that had just seconds before threatened to overtake again. There was no denying that what was in front of him was much stronger and better than what was in his head at that moment. He knew that it might not be the best option in the world, to hide behind a passion he still felt for her. But he also knew that she helped him. When she was there, he didn't feel quite so bad- and he was willing to invest the entirety of his trust in her. She would get him through; he was sure of it.

When she leaned over to kiss his lips, he responded amorously, slowly and lazily kissing her back. It was only seconds before he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her down onto his chest properly, holding her tightly, ensuring to himself that he could keep her safe and warm when he needed to; he hadn't failed there yet.

He wasn't sure quite what drove him to change their position. Perhaps it was a subconscious need to hide behind something; perhaps it was the conscious need to touch and feel every part of her he could reach. Either way, he moved. He sat straight up and groaned under the pain of his fast move, but he didn't regret it. She was now perfectly fixed and curled around his body, pushed against him in every way he could think of. She was breathtakingly close to him, and it took him a few seconds to think straight because he was so blatantly _aware _of her.

His fingers carefully, softly and quickly traced up her back, forcing her to arch her body against his even more, if that were possible. When his fingers found her hair, he repeated an earlier movement, pulling her head backwards to bear her throat and neck to him. When he nipped his teeth against her, she half gasped and he could feel her chest heaving against his. His hands wandered, tickling each sensitive spot of skin, tenderly caressing her, trying to show her how much he valued her and the fact that she had stuck with him despite his problems.

While she tried to maintain a steady breathing rate, he tickled kisses against her collar bone, noticing that the mark he had left on her neck was by now blooming into a dark brand on her pale skin. His hands fixed against her warm back again, holding her tightly as he lowered her back onto the bed, moving to balance above her, his arms somehow holding him up. She was smiling up at him, half expectantly, and he didn't disappoint. While his hips seemed to grind against hers, his mouth overtook sensitive nipple, causing Emily to cry out slowly, her fingers digging into his hips where she held him against her. He smiled to himself and moved back to her mouth relatively quickly, his tongue easily overtaking hers when she was so caught in the moment. And then he surprised her again, delicately clasping her flat stomach and rolling her over on the bed, giving him access to her back and legs. Emily grinned widely, though he didn't see, and she decided to play along with him. When his still sore and bruised hands started on her legs and moved upwards, Emily both relaxed and seized up. He was relaxing her muscles but she was feeling that familiar warmth inside, telling her that she wanted him to go faster.

When his hands pushed against her thighs and ass, she buried her face in the duvet and willed him onwards, willing him to move as quickly as he could, to get her past this torturous teasing. His fingers caressed the curve of her back, her hips, her sides, and finally forced her shoulders from a clenched position into relaxation. She could feel the nerves in her body quietening, the absolute pleasure of his movements working wonders. She was still breathlessly hoping that he would give this up before long and end the games- but she would wait, because in truth she adored what he was doing and in ways, didn't want it to end at all.

He repeated his movements for the best part of five minutes, leaning down on occasion to kiss her ear or hair, sometimes resting his lips softly against the extra sensitive nape of her neck; each time he did it, she responded quietly but contentedly. Aaron knew that if he could do this to her every day, he would. And he had a feeling that in future, he would more willingly take his time. She was falling apart straight into his arms, and he relished the thought that he still had the power to do that, to cause such bliss.

He surprised her, yet again, minutes later, when he forced his arms between her and the duvet, pulling her body upright into a kneeling position right in front of him. When he knelt behind her, he could see the line of her neck and he could feel her thighs pressing against his. With very little effort, he had driven her wild, and he intended to continue.

"Love me," he whispered into her ear, and she gasped when he nibbled her earlobe quickly. His hands wandered across her stomach, holding her close to him, his still strong arms wrapped around her. Her own hands came from her sides to grasp his, and she moved them for him, resting one against her heart. Though he could feel the hard nipple against his fingers, he was more enthralled with the strong, quick beat of her heart. She turned her head to him and caught his mouth in a tender kiss. "I do love you," she whispered slowly. "I really do," she said again.

She realised within seconds that she had missed his latest movement; right when she'd said she loved him, he had slipped into her without a word, his free hand carefully parting her legs and holding her upright in front of him. Every movement he made from that moment was almost too much for her to bear. A wave of emotion she hadn't felt in a long time overwhelmed her, and she reached an arm back to grasp at his hair when his mouth dropped onto hers. For a few seconds, his hands rested against the inside of her thighs, steadying her shaking legs, holding her up- and she was completely breathless during that time, the sheer intimacy catching her off guard.

When she bowed her head to try to catch her breath again, still firmly fixed against him, feeling every tiny pulse, every tiny movement, he kissed the nape of her neck again, and she felt that one single drop of water against her skin. Her hands, which had been reached backwards, holding his hips, moved again. She pulled her head back up and looked at him once more, knowing that she was treading that familiar line between sense and senselessness, knowing that in just a few seconds, one of the most intimate moments she had ever shared with him would be in the past.

"Aaron," she murmured, reaching her arms out from their bodies to find his hands. His fingers entwined with hers and with tears still falling down his cheeks, he walked the line with her until they could walk it no more. Emily forced her eyes open and stared straight into his when the right moment came, determined not to lose him. Her fingers squeezed his and she resisted the urge to double over in satisfaction.

And even though he was crying, Aaron knew that it wasn't just grief. It wasn't regret by any means, and it wasn't anger. It was pure love; something he had honestly never felt before. He felt, for a brief second, as though he was the most powerful man in the world, and simultaneously, he felt inadequate, one inch tall, and worthless. It was a humbling moment, and even as he rested his head against hers and pulled her with him onto the bed, separating them for the final time that night, his broken fingers found her face. "I'm completely in love with you," he said. "And I'm so sorry Emily. I'm so sorry that I-"

"Don't," she said. "All that matters is that I love you. And you love me. And we'll beat it."

She wiped the final tears from his cheeks, softly kissed his lips and stared into his eyes for a while, neither of them saying anything. And finally, Aaron wrapped his arms around her and she pulled the throw from the bed over them.

They drifted into a fitful, solid, satisfied sleep, curved around each other, exhausted and entirely content that what would come, would come; they would beat it when it did.

***

_"Batter my heart, three-person'd God, for you  
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;  
That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend  
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new."_

_John Donne_

***


End file.
